


Don’t Go Breaking My Heart

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Comedy, F/F, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Humanstuck, M/M, Vampire Bites, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-10 19:30:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18414398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: Dave Strider is a vampire, and he also happens to be the subject of a crush by a certain Karkat Vantas. When the first man flees the scene of infatuation, the second enlists the help of his best friend to track down this mysterious creature of the night. Considering that Dave lives with his sister, and that Karkat's dear friend is very, very much in love with women, it's obvious that this entire affair will obviously go off without a hitch. Right? Totally right.





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this fic is named for an elton john song. fun fact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck canon we're doing vampires now.

Bygone Times isn’t exactly what most would consider the most vivacious of hangouts. While it’s a popular lunchtime destination, its nighttime scene leaves plenty to be desired. On days when there are important sports games on, there’ll be a crowd, but it empties quickly at the game’s conclusion. This certainly explains why a single man, appearing in his early twenties, with a pale face covered in silvery stubble and a head of neatly combed blond hair, is preparing to play for a whopping crowd of three.

It’s 9:00 PM, and, of the three in this crowd, one happens to be the bartender. Of the remaining two, one is asleep, face-down next to a half-finished bowl of lukewarm chili. The other, a frazzled young man with slightly curled black hair, rich brown skin, and a distinctively arched nose, is in the middle of some sort of feverish texting battle. None of this bothers the blond, though. At precisely 9:00, he sits atop the high stool he was provided and taps at the microphone.

“Uh... hey,” he says, his voice marked by a distinctive southern drawl, “Name’s Dave Strider. Is this thing on?” He looks around, and continues when there’s no reply. “Well, then, guess it don’t really matter if it is, huh?” He snickers. “Guess I’ll just be playing you some dope beats. Uh. Here it goes.”

There’s a series of muffled movements, then Dave pulls out a guitar. It’s a plain acoustic model. There are no fancy bells or whistles, no electric ports, no whammy bars. It’s the sort of cheapass instrument you’d get to start learning, but replace soon thereafter. Yet, when his fingers touch the strings, the instrument betrays its age. The notes whine, but not overly so, and the strings carry their notes with dutiful dedication. Deft flicks of the wrist and seemingly instinctive finger twitches piece together a warbling tube, that seems almost mournful, and that reverberates through the otherwise silent little dive bar.

The man in the audience looks up from his phone. His brows furrow, the tension in his shoulders dissipates, and he finds himself nodding along to the beat. He feels the low base notes, which thrum and reverberate within his heart.

As for Dave Strider, well, he doesn’t overlook this obvious show of appreciation. There’s a brief moment, when the two men’s eyes meet, and a sort of silent approval is exchanged.

Then, there’s a beat.

Dave returns to idly wondering if anyone at the bar knows who he really is. Dave Strider, the eccentric fuck-who-knows-how-much-aire, who lives in a ridiculously huge mansion on the outskirts of town. Dave Strider, the head of (and technically only member of) the band Screamin’ and Memein’ (formerly Mime Party). Dave Strider, who has resided in the quaint little town of Skaia for hundreds of years, yet everyone just assumes he's the third in a line of people who just so happen to be named Dave Strider. Dave Strider III, he supposes.

For now, the guitarist is sticking to covers. He doesn't need to bore the few poor saps in this room with his shitty raps or banal, awful poetry. For some reason, when his spins the large Wheel of Songs Available at His Immediate Disposal, he ends up landing on Elton John's “Don't go Breaking my Heart”. Why? Fuck if he knows.

It doesn't go unnoticed by Dave that the other man—this stranger, who just so happens to have long since forgotten the drama he had only just been so enthralled with—never actually looks away from the performance. Not during the one round of Dave's original Strider™ brand poetry, nor during _Little Brown Jug_. Even after a few more people have trickled in, and a group of rancorous college students have joined in on a horrendously off-key rendition of _Take On Me_ , the man's attention hasn't wavered. It's unsettling, to say the least.

So, when all the music is done, and as the bar closes, Dave packs himself up faster than he ever has before. His guitar is thrown into his case, and he goes as far as to leave his sound equipment behind. (It doesn't matter to him. He has, what? Thirteen more sets of sound equipment back home. Apparently, shitty old clocks are worth a lot of money these days, and Dave has a great abundance of such things. Being a collector has its perks.) He skeedaddles faster than an annoying little woodpecker, and only manages to inadvertently leave behind one of his business cards.

 

It just so happens that said business card ends up in the hands of a certain Karkat Vantas. He had intended to ask the man for his band's name, as he had never given it, so that he could purchase some music from him. Sure, the guy looks like your run-of-the-mill douchelord, but his beats were solid. When he realized that the man had left before he could get a chance to do this, he found himself overcome with a vague sense of disappointment, which has been happily negated by this new discovery. He pockets the card and returns home, at which point he, as many humans are wont to do, completely fucking forgets about it and goes to bed.

In fact, the entire affair so thoroughly slips his mind that he only remembers it three days later, when his roommate approaches him, card in hand.

Now, his roommate is a woman, but there is absolutely nothing happening between the two of them. In fact, they have been friends since childhood, but have never engaged or even thought of engaging in any sort of romantic affairs together. She's a tall woman, and her graceful, artful form towers far above her rather squat roommate. Her skin is darker than his, her nose, both flatter and wider, and her eyes are a vivid shade of jade green. Right now, said lovely eyes are trained keenly upon Karkat, as she clears her throat and extends both his crumpled up pants and the forgotten business card to him. “It appears that you have left _your_ laundry in  _our_ entryway again, my friend. Might you care to explain to me why that's a problem?”

Karkat responds with a sigh. He knows the answer, and the rote flatness in his voice only hammers that home harder. “Our entryway is our first impression to our guests. We must keep it tidy, so that people do not assume we are slobs!” After discarding his phone on the nearby empty sofa cushion, he balls up his pants, and shoves them beneath his arm. He reaches out, takes the card, and pauses. The memory of that night hits him, like a white-gloved backhand from Mickey Mouse, himself. He speaks up, looking, now, to Kanaya's receding form, “Have you ever heard of this band? Fucking... uh... Wow. What sort of mind-numbingly vapid dumbfuck would bother to name their band Screamin’ and Memein’?”

Kanaya turns. Her brows are raised, indicating mild interest. “I agree that that is a peculiar name, but I have never heard of them. Or...” She pauses. After a few seconds, there's a spark of recognition in her eyes, “Actually, no. You know the man I work with at the lab?”

“Probably, but that's a pretty vague statement. You work with plenty of fucking men at the lab. Which one are you specifically talking about?”

“Dirk Strider, the head of the tech support for the building. He's mentioned a few times that a cousin of his runs a band. I believe that might be it.” Kanaya punctuates her statement with a shrug, one that conveys a poignant uncertainty. “Mind you, I don't actually remember the name of this band. I'm just saying that it sounds very familiar to me.”

Karkat nods. He opens up his laptop and begins searching the band's name.

It's run by one man, who calls himself DJ Crow. All that is known about this man is that his appearance perfectly matches that of the guitarist from that night, and that he is never seen without sunglasses. Judging by the performances listed on the site, he's a night owl. Nothing is scheduled for anything earlier than 6:00 PM, and his reservation section specifically mentions that he doesn't do outdoor gigs. (Apparently, he also doesn't do children's birthday parties, but that seems sort of logical.)

All of the information is fairly useful, but it doesn't sate Karkat's curiosity. No, he wants to know who this man is. So, the next time he crosses paths with Kanaya, as the two of them are enjoying a dinner of chili from a can, he proposes his plan. “Would you mind hitting up Dirk for some info next time you see him at work?”

Kanaya raises a brow, but says nothing otherwise.

“About that band. Ask him what his cousin's name is.”

“Karkat,” Kanaya tuts, “Dirk is a very private man. I don't think he'll just hand out such information on a whim. Certainly, as a friend, I will do this favor for you. I will ask him the question, but that doesn't guarantee an answer.” 

 

The next day, as Kanaya stands before the tan-faced man in dumb anime shades, (which go completely against formal dress code, yet no one seems to mention them) known as Dirk Strider, she finds herself eating her own words. There's a faint hint of a smile on his face, and a sense of pride in his voice as he blabbers incessantly, to a degree Kanaya has never before witnessed, about the question he'd been posed.

“Oh? Screamin’ and Memein’? Yeah, my bro, Dave, runs it. You've probably heard of him, right? That huge Victorian mansion just outside of Skaia is his. We've got the same name, but we're not actually bros. We're cousins. I've probably said that before, right?”

Kanaya nods. “Yeah,” she mumbles.

“Cool. Bro's a musical prodigy. You should check his band out.” As if he has prepared this speech for many months, and carries around tiny sample USB drives in his pocket, with his cousin's music on them (which he does), he pulls out said drive and hands it over. “Give him a listen. Absolutely killer guitar player. Anyhow, I gotta get back to brogramming some shit. Mr. Williams, you know, down a few cubes? He's always locking himself out of his laptop. I keep telling him to write down his password, but he never does.” Dirk shrugs. He pulls out his phone, sends a text, and wanders off.

Kanaya, meanwhile, breathes a long sigh. She pulls out her own phone and sends Karkat a text, containing within it the many details Dirk had so generously given her, before returning to her own work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i never fucking beta anything and wrote this while slightly tipsy so thanks for sticking around if you did. glad you liked (????) it


	2. Crocodile Rock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**Crocodile Rock**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xw0EozkBWuI) is by Elton John. It was released in 1973. There's your link. Music yourself up, nerds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've added apostrophes for accessibility and general readability. you're welcome. yes i linked stock images. what do you want me to do? actually host photos of plants!? let's just pretend it's part of the humor.

**_Several—but not many, nor a quantity exceeding the literal definition of several—days later..._ **

Dave Strider stands above the unconscious body of a stranger. His fingers are firmly curled around a solid wooden beam, and his stomach is growling for some good food. If his stomach could speak, which we all know it scientifically cannot, it would be saying something along the lines of, “Sweet baby Jesus, finally! Some fucking food!” And, when it says the word ‘food’ it, belonging to a vampire, specifically means ‘blood’. Instinct drives Dave, and by the time he realizes what has happened, he's spilled a decent amount of blood on a very rare, very authentic, and handmade oriental rug. Fortunately, much of the rug is comprised of deep, dark hues. Unfortunately, it just so happens that the blood has been spilled onto sections of pale beige. So, hiding this entire affair is out of the question.

Furthermore, as Dave takes a good look at the mortal being he has just so happened to doom with the dubious gift of immortality, he realizes that he actually does know him. He recognizes him, at least...

His attempt to place where, exactly, this memory stems from is halted, however, by the arrival of his twin sister. She barges into the house's entryway, with her hands on her hips and a scowl that could kill on her face. Her complexion is a shade or so darker than Dave's, though still pale, though her hair is the same golden blonde. “My dearest, most beloved brother,” she says, her voice worryingly sweet.

Dave offers a loud swallow. He feels sweat beading on his brow. “Yes, my most absolutely dope sister?” he ekes out.

“Tell me,” says Rose, now leaning over to point at the obvious bloodstains on her prized carpet, “What might this now-dry and squalid mark be, upon my beloved nineteenth century rug?” Her scowl softens, turning to a spine-chilling smile. It's the look of a mother, who has caught a child with his rather stupid little fangs stuck in a human-shaped cookie jar. Or, in this case, it is more aptly the knowing expression of a sister about to absolutely obliterate her immortal twin brother off the face of the planet for a few hours. “Hm?”

“Well, my absolutely lovely sibling,” Dave begins to spin his surprisingly factual but otherwise useless yarn, and his nerves make his usual southern drawl even more pronounced, “See, this unfortunate fuck right here? Yeah, he just walked right on into our house. Now, we ain't too keen on that, right? You've said so yourself. Can't let all the peeps around here in on the fact that we're immortal blood-suckers, because that's just some shit that's even worse than mosquitoes. Like, imagine how annoying mosquitoes are, then crank that shit up to eleven and make them immortal and human sized. See, now ain't that terrifying?

“Well, anyhow... Anywho. He walked in, and I just thought, ‘Wow, that's not great.’ So I hit him. On the head. With this piece of wood.” A sheepish smile, though not pronounced, punctuates the statement. Then, as if to make the situation better, he adds, “Don't worry. I didn't pull it from the ceiling rafters again. This big ol’ wood corpse fragment was straight out of the firewood pile.”

Rose, after a few seconds of blank staring, during which she makes some sort of feeble attempt to understand the usual bile that spews from her brother's mouth, steps forward. She gently removes the wooden pole from Dave's hand, then bashes it against his skull with a very ungentle amount of force. Once done, she sets it aside. “Well, now that this is all wrapped up, I suppose we can now attend to the more pressing matter at hand. It appears that, in addition to clobbering this unfortunate vagrant over the head with some firewood, you have also plunged your teeth into his neck. Congratulations, Dave, it's a boy, and you've made another vampire. I am often amazed, mystified, even, at your overwhelming aptitude to completely and irrevocably louse up incredibly mundane things, of the variety that one would not even believe  _can_ be so screwed, but you have done it again. You have topped your own haphazardness.”

Dave responds with his own blank stare. “Sorry, Rose, but I didn't get half of that. Can we maybe close the encyclopedia and open up a normal fuckin’ conversation book?”

“Fair enough.” Rose folds her arms across her chest. She smiles. “What I'm saying is that this is your folly, Dave. I have nothing to do with it, and absolve myself of any sort of prickly implications this happenstance involves. You are now the chief owner of a new vampire fledgling. Congratulations. Now, if you excuse me,” she leans over, rolls up the carpet, and shakes her head, “I will be making what is surely a vain attempt to wash out this stain. Goodbye.”

“Still a little heavy with your dictionary, there, Rose, but I gotcha.” A lazy two-finger salute serves as Dave's farewell to his sister.

* * *

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 13:02 --

TT: Let me make an educated guess about the reason you've just suddenly dropped out of the blue and into my chat client...

TG: okay my dude now ain't the time for making educated guesses this isn't our average yo wassup my distant sanguine cousin like usual  
TG: this time it's real shit it's serious

TT: Ah. You ran over the neighbor's mailbox again. Which car? Was it that sick old one, the Oldsmobile?

TG: no not that  
TG: dude hear me out

TT: Did you make another horrendous attempt at flirting and get banned from yet another bar until they forget who you are?

TG: no  
TG: i might have accidentally bitten some random fuck who just happened to wander up to my house and act all suspicious and shit and loiter right in front of our beautiful little ivy covered no loitering sign  
TG: well  
TG: see  
TG: i hit him on the head with firewood first so there's that like  
TG: bam  
TG: this fucker was down like a tit out of a bra you wouldn't believe that shit he must have a pretty thin little skull right

TT: ...

TG: in the process of absolutely whooping some intruder ass i might have realized that hey i'm pretty fuckin hungry cause i've forgotten to raid the blood bank like usual for like a solid month or so and now i'm just gonna capri sun this sucker because vampire instincts are a real drag  
TG: so then i totally capri sunned this fucker  
TG: and then i got some sweet vein juice on rose's damned precious rug

TT: Oh no.  
TT: Not the 19th century oriental, I hope. That's a priceless British import, Dave!

TG: how'd you know

TT: Oh my god.  
TT: I'm going to go out on a limb and, at the same time, swing the world's tiniest baseball bat at the world's most microscopic ball and say that Rose is rather pissed?

TG: yeah  
TG: also now i'm in charge of this dumbass when he wakes up as a freshly minted immortal so uh you got any advice there since that's how you and jake met

TT: First of all, we met through a mutual acquaintance. We were introduced on the grounds that we were both aware of the situation, and that Jake was perfectly willing to exchange his mortality for a large sum of money during a dire blood shortage. I hardly believe that your brodictament is anything like that.  
TT: Secondly, you still haven't technically yucked up that cash you owe me for when I covered your ass after you took Rose's Model T out for a joy ride a century ago. So, unfortunately, and with a very heavy heart, I must say that I have no advice.

TG: oh fuck bro you can't do me nasty like that  
TG: dirk  
TG: dirk you fuck  
TG: aw shit  
TG: fuckin tits

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 13:40 --

* * *

Nestled cozily within a dense forest, many miles from Skaia, but not so many that it is no longer on the continent of North America, is a vine-covered little cottage. The surrounds are lush with plant life of all sorts. Poisonous this, poisonous that, a bit of fragrant whatever-those-things-are-over-theres, and a little spattering of those-might-be-edibles; this is to say that there are many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many plants. There's also a garden, fully stocked with many recognizable and absolutely edible fruits. The home, itself, is not the point, though. The point is the lovely woman who lives within, and who has done so for almost a thousand years.

She is known by many names. Locals of the secluded wilderness around her have called her Mother Nature, others call her a witch, and yet more have claimed she is the Goddess of the Forest. The truth is that she is, as one might extrapolate from the thematic elements of this story thus far, a vampire. Her name is Jade Harley, and she's a bright, cheerful woman. Her black hair is long, trailing to her waist, and neatly framing her deeply tanned face. Green eyes peer out from behind round spectacles, and a buck-toothed smile graces her face when she hears a familiar ding. (Vampires, even those who love nature, aren't opposed to the luxuries of modern life!)

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering gardenGnostic [GG] at 13:50 --

TG: okay so i'm just gonna say this all at once up front so we don't go through some weird roundabout guessing game okay  
TG: some dumbass wandered into my house and i was really fuckin hungry so i whammed him over the head with some fire wood sucked his blood like it was a juicy juice and now he's a vampire and he's in one of the guest bedrooms and he's probably going to be waking up in a few hours really pissed and really confused  
TG: help

GG: well hello, dave! :)  
GG: been a while since we talked. what, like, fifty years!? wow!

TG: oh shit yeah i guess i've gotten real busy  
TG: spinning some sick beats and dropping flaming hot guitar solos everywhere gets you real caught up in that big time star life and all that

GG: yeah i bet! :o  
GG: but you wanted advice, right? unfortunately, i don't really know what to do with all that. maybe you shouldn't have turned him into a vampire?

TG: okay yeah well hindsight is twenty fuckin twenty so we got that

GG: is he at least cute? ;)

TG: i guess  
TG: should i like give him anything when he wakes up it's been so fucking long that i've forgotten what sort of shit these teething little fledgling shits eat and do

GG: you could always just ask him when he wakes up?

TG: no that's way too fuckin easy

GG: well that's all i've really got! :( sorry!  
GG: hope you figure it out soon! let me know what you find out, because i'll add it to my research! :D  
GG: oh, and, if you don't mind, i'm going to send you some pictures of my plants now. they're really big! and i've got some new ones!

\-- GG sent an image! [bigtreebill321.jpg](https://c7.alamy.com/comp/X8TFB1/big-tree-on-field-X8TFB1.jpg) \--  
\-- GG sent an image! [POISONhemlock012.jpg](https://c8.alamy.com/comp/D34K8R/poison-hemlock-conium-maculatum-D34K8R.jpg) \--  
\-- GG sent an image! [strawberries102.jpg](https://c8.alamy.com/comp/B1TDCH/strawberry-plant-with-ripe-red-berries-waiting-to-be-picked-B1TDCH.jpg) \--

TG: wow those're cool uh  
TG: thanks for the plants  
TG: they don't actually help me but good for you and those plants  
TG: i'm going to go try and figure out what sort of shit i've gotten myself into now

GG: until next time, then! :)

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering gardenGnostic [GG] at 14:19! --

* * *

When Karkat Vantas finally wakes up, he has the biggest crick in his neck of his entire life, and it feels as if he's been hit over the head. Perhaps it was with a brick? No... He feels, for some reason, as if it was a sizeable chunk of hefty firewood. Regardless, his head is throbbing, and he's in a room that's unfamiliar to him. The furnishings are distinctly high class. When he reaches out, to the wooden bedpost at his feet, he finds that it's made of solid wood, and fashioned in a Victorian style, matching the rest of the decor. The mattress is luxuriously soft, as are the pillows, which seem to be stuffed with real feathers. And, really, who the fuck uses real feathers these days? “Either rich people or fucking vampires,” he mutters to himself.

He sits up, rubs his head, and groans.

And, at this exact moment, the guitarist from that night, an unspecified number of days ago, barges into the room. His arms are full of random fruit juice boxes, all of a different variety, and his shades are askew. Vivid red eyes stare forth, and a nervous grin is on his face. Said grin reveals a set of oddly pointed canines. “Oh fuck, man, you're awake! Hey, dude, real sorry about the whole probably giving you a concussion thing. The good news is that you're not dead, the bad news is that you're a vampire now, so jot that down.”

Karkat's brows furrow. “What the fuck are you on about? I don't even know who you are.” Okay, so that's a lie. He knows this man is Dave Strider, but he seriously doubts that he's a _real_ vampire. It's probably just part of his dumb act, right?

“There's some freshly harvested cow blood in the cup next to you. There's also a cup of identically dyed apple juice. Ain't that fun!? We're playing a little game, just to get some blood pumping into that head again. Or, I guess, that'd be a metaphor or whatever, since there's no real blood pumping at this point. But you can take whichever. One of them will probably taste awful, though, so—”

As if on cue, Karkat proceeds to spit out the sip of whatever substance he's just put into his mouth. “Jesus fuck! Look, I don't care what sort of freaky image you've got for the stage, but you cannot just legally feed other people cow blood. Where on this fucking planet would you even manage to get your dumbass hands on such a thing!?”

Dave, looking intently at the bottom of the now-emptied glass at Karkat's bedside, shrugs. “We've got some cows out back. Also, that was apple juice. You just drank apple juice.”

Karkat blinks. He looks to Dave, and at the pile of dropped juice cartons at his feet, before snatching up another. He jabs the straw in with fervor, sips, and proceeds to also spit out what ends up being a berry flavor mix. “What are you putting in this fucking juice!?”

“Nothing. It's straight from the grocery store.”

A moment of hesitation feels like a lifetime to Karkat, but he concedes that this might actually be happening. He looks to his bedside table, at the glass of murky red, and bites his lip. His own canines seem to be a bit sharper than he remembers, but he ignores this for a moment. Right now, he brings the cup to his nose. Upon inhaling, he finds that it smells exactly like what he'd expect cow blood to smell like. It's bitter and metallic. Yet, despite his own misgivings, there's something oddly alluring about this scent. In fact, now that he thinks about it, since when has blood had a scent? Unable to resist, he takes a sip, and it tastes pretty damned good. Not like blood, at least. It's sweet and fruity, like the apple juice should have been. He gulps down the rest of the glass before whipping around, so as to face Dave, and demanding answers, “WHAT THE LITERAL FUCK IS THIS!?”

“I told you, dude, you're a vampire. Congrats. Whoop whoop and all that sweet, celebratory shit. You're now officially immortal, save for a silver stabby bit to your heart.”

“You're fucking kidding me. I came all this way to ask a cute guy out on a fucking basic ass date, and I end up getting turned into a goddamned vampire.” Karkat groans and buries his face in his hands. Aside from the obvious issue of eventually breaking this to his roommate, he also considers the implications of this. Sure, he's already a night owl, and immortality sounds pretty chill, but damn if this hasn't absolutely fucked up his career goals. And, aside from that... “I'm immortal, and I'm stuck as a fucking twenty-two year old.”

“Well, you're at least old enough to vote and shit.”

“THIS IS FUCKING HORRIBLE.”

“Oh, hell, dude, are you telling me.”


	3. Painter Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Painter Man](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2BhIwytZWbg)** is a 1978 song by Boney M. Please enjoy this music video, I guess.

Having promptly abandoned his new charge in one of his mansion's many bedrooms, Dave Strider stumbles into the home's library. He begins a frantic search, thumbing through tome after dusty tome for information on how the ever-loving fuck he's supposed to get himself out of this pickle.

Now, being the primary domain of his sister, the library is meticulously organized. Everything is filed according to the highest of Dewey's decimal standards (whoever, Dave supposes, this ‘Dewey’ is). Unfortunately for Dave, he doesn't actually know how this system works; he has never set foot in a library since some time during the nineteenth century, when, during a sojourn in Rome, he got lost in the Vatican Library.

(Now, he had never _intended_ to get lost in the Vatican Library. In fact, he had never even intended to be anywhere near the Vatican! He'd gotten terribly lost after hitting up some of the local drinking establishments. He was subsequently misidentified as Luigi Valenti Gonzaga, by a man who clearly had no idea what Mr. Gonzaga looked like, and was sent to return to his post in the Vatican's literary collection. Needless to say, a bit of smooth-talking was required when the _real_ Luigi found him, and it just snowballed into a century-long ban from the Vatican.)

After considering this moment in his long life, and a fair amount of time perusing the shelves, Dave scuttles from the library with a small collection of books in his arms. He settles onto his bed to read them, but finds that several of them are absolutely useless. In fact, he'd dare to say they aren't worth the crumbling paper they're printed on. One, however, does seem to be promising: Sir Reginald Butterworth's 1902 copy of _How to Care for a Fledgling_.

He flips through the book, not really caring to read the pages in depth, before stopping at page thirty-seven.

“Freshly turned vampires are often confused and bewildered by their newfound immortality. My observations suggest that the afflicted may be prone to bouts of vigorous denial, during which they will curse the gods for their curse. They may be saddened by their sanguine pox, and find little joy in eating or drinking the required sustenance to stave off feral instincts. If this is the case, I highly recommend a product known as Suck-‘Em's, created by my friend and colleague, Mr. Will K. Kellogg. They are designed to mimic the pleasant appearance of chewable candies, and are discreetly packaged. When I have fed such items to my fledglings, I found them to be incredibly popular.”

Dave closes the book, Googles the promoted item, and finds that it ceased production in 1903. Apparently, the glowing endorsement of Mr. Butterworth wasn't... well... worth much.

After browsing the rest of the book, which is about as helpful as the small snippet he'd bothered to actually read, Dave comes to the conclusion that he must figure out the solution to this entire affair by himself. He slams the book shut, throws it on the floor, and storms off, back to where he'd previously left Karkat.

* * *

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began pestering grimAuxiliatrix [GA] at 22:36 --

GA: Oh Hello Karkat  
GA: Glad To See That You Are Alright  
GA: I Was Beginning To Worry About Your Safety As You Had Yet To Return To Our Apartment  
GA: Did You Secure A Date With The Cute Man

CG: First of all, I'm not *exactly* what can be passably considered as “alright”, but I am at least alive.  
CG: Secondly, no, I did not. But he's apparently a fucking vampire, so you can write that down as a banal little tidbit for today's diary entry.

GA: ...  
GA: Ah I'm Sorry To Hear That He Is Socially Parasitic I Suppose Looks Don't Mean Everything

CG: No, I mean he's *actually* a vampire, and, apparently, I'm one, too, now. Isn't that just a kick in the hoofed beast's mouth? I trudge all the way to the edge of this shithole of a city, prepare to ask some cute guy out on a date, and end up being assaulted with firewood. Just my luck.  
CG: Laugh it up, universe. It's Karkat “Can't Catch a Fucking Break Unless it's His Damned Skull Caving In on Itself” Vantas. Apparently, I haven't suffered enough! I'm now trapped in the shitty Victorian mansion, surrounded by outdated furniture, and I've been drinking cow blood like it's the freshest and most out-your-ass expensive wine.

GA: While I Sympathize With Your Plight And Your Apparent Failure To Secure A Romantic Partner I Must Say That It Seems You Have Imbibed Too Much  
GA: I'm Going To Paypal You Some Money  
GA: Go Sleep This Off At A Motel Or Something

CG: This is just fucking impossible. Oh. Fuck. Here he comes.

GA: Karkat Are You Alright The Content You Are Sending Me Is Worrisome  
GA: Karkat Are You There

CG: I didn't actually listen to a single word that so frivolously flowed from this asshole's mouth, like the most disgusting of gargoyles, so I have no idea if what I just did worked. Does a silver cane to the face kill a vampire?  
CG: Kanaya?

GA: I'm Not Entirely Sure What Sort Of Trivia Game You Are Playing But I Do Not Believe So  
GA: At Least It Is Not A Traditional Method of Killing A Vampire

CG: Oh fuck. Well, I think I knocked him unconscious. Might as well fkndssdioopwek;  
CG: camel dlmkl poop gfleodk  
CG: fuck

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased pestering grimAuxiliatrix [GA] at 22:45 --

As the message closes, Kanaya finds her most motherly of instincts telling her that her friend is in trouble. Unfortunately, another set of instincts, which belong to her wallet, also remind her that she has work tomorrow morning.

 _“Surely,”_ reasons Kanaya, not aloud, but within the silence of her own mind, _“Karkat can handle himself. He is a strong and capable man, who does not need my input at this particular hour. In fact, he may not even require it at this very minute!”_

As the clock ticks on, approaching 11:00, she silences her phone and sets it atop her beside table. She then stretches her arms, yawns, and falls asleep.

She dreams of wonderful things, such as being promoted at work. After this fantastical promotion, she is led to a room, where she is greeted by umpteen butterflies, all bearing tiny kittens. As one fucking should, she pets these many tiny cats. It is a splendid, wonderful dream, which has absolutely nothing to do with the absolute chaos of Karkat Vantas' life.

* * *

Rewinding the narrative clock a bit, we return to the moment at which Karkat sends a series of horribly auto-corrected keysmashes to his friend.

The victim of this encounter, Dave Strider, is on the floor. Having been forcefully thwapped in the face with a cane, (of solid construction, with a black shaft, surmounted by the a tiny silver bunny rabbit,) he is now bleeding profusely from his crooked nose. As Karkat is typing the coherent portion of his chat with Kanaya, however, Dave rises to his feet. With a huff of annoyance, and a loud crack, he pops his nose back in place. As the bleeding stops, he approaches Karkat. “Hey, now, I ain't trying to hurt you or anything. I—” as he tries to continue, he finds himself under assault by the man's phone.

The two men then proceed to physically wrestle one another, rolling gracelessly across the room. In the process of this brawl, many things happen. A wobbly nightstand is knocked over; its weak legs breaks, and the $80,000 antique vase atop it is shattered into a million totally-not-rad pieces. A wrought iron birdcage goes flying, and the carefully pieced together crow skeleton perched inside it splinters in to many shards of long-forgotten hobbies and wasted taxidermy learning time. As it flies through the air, a stray fragment of avian bone rips through a canvas, on which _the_ Monet had formerly painted a scene of water lilies. And, as the battle ends its untriumphant conclusion, the final thing to break is flung from Karkat's hand. Cracked screen and all, the Android phone tumbles through the air, like an acrobat, before smashing to pieces on the hardwood floor, like a very bad acrobat.

As the sound of dying phone pierces through the air, Karkat allows himself a moment of loss. He stares at his now thoroughly fucked over phone. First, with sadness. Then, with rage. “YOU ABSOLUTE BLUNDERFUCKING MORON!”

“If it helps, I have free spare phones in the basement. Seriously. I can show you where they're—” Dave begins.

Karkat cuts him off. “ _Oh fuck no!_ I will not be going anywhere with you, to be Cask of Amontillado-ed away in some dark, musky old creep dungeon. That shit is not on my schedule, and, even if I wanted it to be, I couldn't possibly pencil it in, due to the fact that you've just nuked my cellphone out of Earth's goddamned orbit.”

“That?” Dave says, his voice serious, ”That right there? That's a fuckin’ valid take. I will just march my sweet cheeks right on downstairs, to my basement, and bring you up a new phone. Pop out your old SIM card, though, ‘cause we'll need that. I think. Honestly? I don't know much about phones. I'm more of a telegram guy, myself. I could tap out some absolutely smokin’ ‘grams like no one's business, and you've gotta’ admit they've got a certain aesthetic to them. In fact—”

Karkat watches, slack-jawed, as the vampire in front of him continues to pointlessly babble on and on about absolutely nothing. Blood is still on his face and staining his shirt, but he doesn't seem to care, nor does he seem to care about the broken right lens of his shades. He just keeps fucking going. It's as flabbergasting as it is amazing, in the most confounding of ways.

“—so, yeah, me and spying? Tight. I could slam out those deets to Eisenhower faster than you can say—”

Again, Karkat cuts him off. “God. Could you just shut up and get me a new phone?” snaps Karkat, now beyond the end of his rope. Indeed, his rope is absolutely gone. He's fallen overboard, and nothing in the foreseeable future could possibly bring him back onto the solid deck of the S. S. Reality.

Dave, meanwhile, has only just _hit_ the deck of his version of the ship-that-is-a-metaphor-for-awareness-of-the-present. He straightens his back, nods, and offers a nervous laugh. “Yeah. Totes. Right on that shit.” And, with this, he scampers off.

Once the door has closed behind his annoying new companion, Karkat settles onto the floor. He begins to sift through his phone's tattered corpse, only to come to the realization that his SIM card was conveniently (for the plot, at least) obliterated on impact.

While Karkat has no positive feelings for the man who has turned him into an immortal creature of the night, he feels obligated to stop him from venturing down at least three staircases to retrieve a useless phone. He stands up and slams open the door, calling out as he does so, “Don't fucking bother. The SIM card is dead.”

Dave turns, revealing that his face has taken on a surprisingly sincere expression of remorse. “Oh. Shit, man, sorry about that...”

“Well...” Karkat sighs. He sees no real way out of the situation and, without knowledge of what being a vampire actually entails, he has no desire to endanger others by prematurely leaving the mansion. In a way, he supposes he got some sort of date. As far as he can tell, he's stuck here, with this twit, until further notice. He might as well deal with it. “I guess I'm sorry for hitting you in your insufferable face with a cane. We're even, now.”

“Yup! Fair enough, dude.”

“ _So_ ,” for no particular reason, Karkat draws out the vowel, “I guess I'm a vampire, now?”

“Yeah, and I was coming on in here to tell you all ‘bout the wonders of eternal nighttime living when you smashed in my pretty face. I guess you're being all nice to me now because you want to hear what I have to say, huh?” Dave smiles. It's a shit-churningly cocky, know-it-all grin; Karkat hates it. “What I'm trying to say is that I'm still willing to teach you the vampiric ropes.”

“And I'd love to just have a regular rope, so I could rappel my way straight out of this window, but the world is a fickle bastard, and it never gives us what we want. Instead, I guess I'm settling for the inferior option of listening to your asinine prattle.” Karkat folds his arms across his chest. He figures that his rant is sufficient, but is forced to revise it, as Dave offers little more than a blank stare. “Yes. Tell me all about my riveting, all-expenses-fucking-paid trip to vampire land.”

“Awesome!” Dave nods. He pats Karkat on the back, though he withdraws his hand quickly. “Follow me down to the living room, what with all its dope atmosphere and shit, and we'll get this ball rolling.”

“Oh, happy fucking day,” grumbles Karkat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know who reginald butterworth is. i made him up. my apologies to any real live sir reginald butterworths. and, yes, will kellogg, founder of kellogg's, is canonically a vampire in this fic. sue me, kellogg's, i fucking dare you.


	4. Echoes of Spain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**Echoes of Spain**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R4Fx2NZmVpw) is a Django Reinhardt song from 1939-1940.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've never actually written terezi or vriska in any depth before so feedback and gentle criticism is welcome and appreciated thanks.

Taking a break from the wondrous mishaps of Dave and Karkat, we turn the narrative spotlight to a certain Rose Lalonde.

Having had quite enough of her brother's wild flailing about and failure to approach anything akin to actually resembling a mentor, she has left the house and rented a shady little motel room. It's about a mile into the city, nestled between a run-down Hardee's and a Waffle House so new she can smell the scent of fresh asphalt every time she passes it. Of course, she only does so during night, and that's okay with her.

Now, the safety of Rose Lalonde should be of no concern. Ever since she stabbed a man to death in the early 1900's for trying to take her bag, she has been a bit of a local legend. “The woman with the pink eyes” is a local superstition, and she's aware of it. If a woman sees Rose, it's said to bring good luck. (Should Rose see a woman walking home alone, late at night, she'll often trail her, ensuring her safety. From time to time, she might leave a monetary memento of her visit.) If a man sees her, however, it's said to be an omen of bad things to come. And, as far as Rose is concerned, that's fine with her. She'd rather not be bothered by men. Not at this point. She's fed up with them, what with dealing with the countless blunders of goddamned Napoleon. No. Absolutely not. No fucking thanks.

Thus, she sits on the balcony of her room. The surface is topped by a cheap faux grass carpet.

The air is crisp, as one would expect at just a bit past midnight. The stars are bright and, as the telltale roar hums through the air, she sees a distant passing plane. She considers how small the world has grown. Once, she would have to ride in a cramped ship for week to reach Europe; now, she can simply hop on a plane, and she'll be there in less than a day! The sheer amount of change boggles her mind, though she doesn't despise it. Some do. Oh, she _knows_ that some do. There's a whole subset of vampires hiding out in Pennsylvania, living lives no different from the agrarian lifestyles of hundreds of years ago.

As she ponders such clearly relevant things, she notices a person passing by, only one floor below.

This individual is clearly a woman, though her face is obscured by her thick, curly black hair. She wears a baseball cap, upon which Rose can make out “Skaia city court”, embroidered above the bill of the cap. As she looks upon this woman, she ends up being startled.

The stranger suddenly looks up, meeting her gaze, before calling up to her, “You! What're you doing out on a balcony this late at night!?” The voice is scratchy, and a bit nasal, yet it fits the woman perfectly, somehow. Though Rose can't see it, the woman's brows furrow, so that they're no longer visible behind the cherry red horn-rim glasses she wears. “You know anything about a recent disappearance?”

“No, I do not,” Rose lies. She's lied to the law enough times in her life to no longer care about doing so. “And who might you be?”

“Glad you asked!” There comes an almost cartoonish, devilish laugh. “I'm Terezi Pyrope. You know, Judge Terezi?” When Rose doesn't respond, for the name doesn't ring a bell, there's a sigh. A very loud, disgruntled sigh. “Judge Terezi!?” she repeats, louder, “The television show? I prosecute all law-breakers within a hair of their scoundrel lives!?”

Rose shakes her head.

The woman, the apparent Honorable Judge Terezi Pyrope, groans. “Well, whatever! That's me! And I get a whiff of dishonesty from you. What do you know!?” As if to emphasize her words, Terezi proceeds to shine a flashlight in Rose's general direction. “I'm investigating for a friend. I don't usually do this work, so make it worth my while, and get down here. Otherwise, I will be forced to go up there!”

In her eternal state of unperturbedness, (which is now a word) Rose shrugs. She folds her arms atop the railing of her balcony, peers down, at the shadowy figure below, and enunciates a firm reiteration of her previous and most blatant lie, “I know nothing of what you speak. I am perfectly entitled to my privacy, as you are no an officer of the law. When you have a warrant for my arrest, though, I welcome your company! Farewell!” And, with this, she turns, promptly shutting the door to her motel room as she returns inside.

She can hear Terezi cursing through the closed door.

* * *

\-- gallowsCalibrator [GC] began pestering grimAuxiliatrix [GA] at 20:03 --

GC: OK4Y W3LL TH4T W3NT SUP3R GR34T!

GA: I'm Glad To Hear The Investigation Is Going So Well  
GA: Do Tell Me What You've Learned Thus Far

GC: OH I W4S B3ING S4RC4ST1C...  
GC: 1 DON'T 4CTU4LLY KNOW 4NYTH1NG R1GHT NOW 5BOUT K4RK4T

GA: Oh  
GA: That Is Incredibly Disappointing  
GA: What The Fuck

GC: H3Y 1'M JUST TRY1NG TO L1GHT3N TH3 MOOD UP OK4Y  
GC: 1 H4V3 ON3 P3RSON OF 1NT3R3ST THOUGH SO TH3R3'S TH4T  
GC: SH3 LOOKS 4 LOT L1K3 TH4T W31RD CH1CH WHO L1V3S IN TH3 B1G HOUS3 OUTS1D3 OF TOWN  
GC: BUT DON'T QUOT3 M3 ON TH4T  
GC: B3C4US3 1'M NOT SUPPOS3D TO B3 DO1NG TH1S  
GC: YOU OWE ME K4N4Y4

GA: I'm Aware

GC: WHY NOT JUST 4SK VR1SK4 1N TH3 F1RST PL4C3?  
GC: SH3'S L1T3R4LLY 4 D3T3CT1V3

GA: You Know What  
GA: You Are Absolutely Right My Apologies  
GA: I Will Also Ask Vriska  
GA: But Keep On Doing Whatever You Are Doing

GC: M'K4Y SUR3

\-- grimAuxiliatrix [GA] ceased pestering gallowsCalibrator [GC] at 20:15 --

* * *

\-- grimAuxiliatrix [GA] began pestering arachnidsGrip [AG] at 20:16 --

GA: I Literally Cannot Believe That I Am Contacting You Of All People  
GA: But I Must Request Your Help With A Very Important Matter

AG: Okaaaaaaaay? And what exactly is this apparently “very important matter”?

GA: Well You See Karkat Went To That Creepy Victorian Mansion Outside Of Town To Ask What He Described As “A VERY FUCKING ATTRACTIVE MALE” Out On A Date  
GA: Unfortunately He Has Not Returned  
GA: And That Was Yesterday

AG: That sounds like some fucking shit you're in, 8uddy.

GA: Yes And Would You Be Able To Help Me Remove Myself From This Shit

AG: May8e. What's in it for me?

GA: I Have Some Of That Awful Vintage Bourbon That You Are So Very Fond Of  
GA: Also Terezi Is Very Worried About Karkat

AG: Damn. You sure know how to 8reak a woman's spirit, you heartless little w8ste of space.  
AG: I'll do it. Drop the 8our8on off at my place.

GA: Wonderful  
GA: I Will Do Just That Please Keep Me Posted On Your Investigation

\-- grimAuxiliatrix [GA] ceased pestering arachnidsGrip [AG] at 20:30 --

* * *

Elsewhere, at a later time, and several hours after the above messages were exchanged, Rose Lalonde lays across a shitty motel room mattress. Her forearm covers her eyes, though no light streams through the tightly closed curtains. Her lipstick is smudged across her face, and vibrant pink is visible on the half-eaten slab of take-out Olive Garden brand steak.

“Oh, this is absolutely terrible,” she mutters. She sits up and stares forlornly at the meat. “You!” she declares, pointing an accusatory finger at her dinner, “You taste just horrid! I curse the family of whatever inept chef made you with a few hours of mild discomfort.” Having spoken her piece, she stands up, cuts off the portions she's already eaten, and quietly slips the Styrofoam enclosed meat out the window of her motel room. Surely, some passerby will find the meal as a gift from above.

Clearly, there is no possible way that this could lead to any sort of repercussions.


	5. Intermission I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The song I picked for this chapter is way too long of a title to fit in the chapter title. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯. [**Wake Up, Get Up, Get Out There**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZMvzNQ2Itqg) is from Persona 5. I haven’t actually played the game, but the soundtrack is a banger.

Vriska Serket is by no means a tall woman, but what she lacks in height, she more than makes up for in spite. She’s a woman with medium brown skin, black hair, and a look of perpetual disdain. For what? Who knows? The world. Herself. The fact that sea-faring pirates no longer exist as a valid job. The reason for her expression is of little importance; what matters is that she stands in an alleyway, with a motel on one side of her and a Waffle House on the other.

She hovers over a styrofoam container, inside of which she finds a partially eaten steak. Pink lipstick is smeared on the overly wet meat.

“Any reason you’re looking at literal garbage, Vris?” asks Terezi, brows furrowed. 

“It seems relevant,” counters the other woman. She scrutinizes the meat with great vigor, taking in every detail, as if she's some sort of hard-boiled detective from a oft-memed detective game. She couldn't look any more like a grizzled gumshoe if she pressed X to doubt. “Didn't you say the woman you saw that night was wearing pink lipstick?”

From where she leans, arms crossed, against a nearby wall, Terezi nods. “Yeah. Super bright lipstick. Looked real nice.”

“This color?” Vriska asks, shoving the container forward, to her companion.

After brief investigation, Terezi nods. “Oh, hell yeah. That color!” She side-eyes the steak, mouth watering.

Vriska, however, knows her friend well enough. She sighs, hands over the take-out box, and rolls her eyes. “Go ahead and eat it. We don't need it any more.”

Terezi's thanks is mumbled through a mouthful of lukewarm steak.

* * *

About an hour later, in the lobby of the nearest Olive Garden, Terezi and Vriska are busy interrogating—or, rather, attempting to interrogate—the establishment's manager. He's a timid young man, probably not much older than the women questioning him, and he seems to instinctively straighten his glasses whenever he gets nervous.

“I mean... I don't think I can really give you much information on what... uh... people are eating here. I guess I _could_ , but... I don't know how useful it would be...” the man stammers.

Vriska hums, her skepticism palpable.

Terezi, meanwhile, offers a toothy, sinister smile. “You do realize who you're taking to, right? Judge Terezi. Enforcer of the law. You really want to play this dumb little game with us?”

“Not... really?” The manager is sweating, now. His name tag, declaring his name is Hubert, is askew. “W—What did you want?”

Now, Vriska speaks. “We need to know who ordered a take-out filet mignon yesterday. Full list. And highlight anyone the staff thought was shady.”

“Okay, well, I don't think I can do that last part, but... uh... I'll get you the list.”

* * *

\-- arachnidsGrip [AG] began pestering grimAuxiliatrix [GA] at 17:02 --

AG: No need to keep you w8ing asshole.  
AG: We've figured out the 8itch you're looking for.  
AG: Meet me 8ehind the 8urger King at midnight.  
AG: Don't 8e l8.

GA: Why Can't You Just Tell Me What You Learned Now Over Chat  
GA: Why Must I Meet You At Midnight

AG: 8ecause it sets up the atmosphere.

\-- arachnidsGrip [AG] ceased pestering grimAuxiliatrix [GA] at 17:30 --


End file.
